Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Or at least add a stipulation giving me carte blanche to approve the guest list.
Guests who have it in their heads it’s my duty—as someone who lives here—to set her up with some guy I don’t even know—have never even spoken to—all because my parents’ next-door neighbor was the star of the Chicago Steam professional football team in his heyday.
Yeah.
Not happening.
Makes no sense that she wants me to make an introduction.
She must be high.
My goal here in the dining room—where all the food is laid out—was to grab some sustenance. Now, my goal is to get the hell out of here. I’m not a hermit, but I am exhausted, plus I have a video conference at five in the morning with a client who lives in London, England.
I’m going back upstairs to my office to prepare, snack, then sleep.
In that order.
“Claire, I appreciate your enthusiasm—I really do.” Not. “But all I want to do right now is make a plate for myself and hide in my office.” I don’t mention the part where I pop a sleeping pill so I can crash early.
My roommate decided Thursday was the perfect night of the week to host a wine and charcuterie get-together, not considering the fact that some of us have to work at the ass crack of dawn.
Sure, I work from home.
And yes, normally I don’t fire up my laptop until at least nine in the morning, which gives me plenty of time to sleep in—but still, I have that meeting at the ass crack of dawn because:
It’s Thursday.
We’re not in college anymore.
We’re full-fledged adults.
We’re also not teenagers in high school who make their friends approach their crushes on their behalf. So juvenile and immature.
“Will you at least go up to him and tell him I’m interested?”
Oh my god.
I stop piling cheese and sausage on my plate long enough to glance up at her. “Are you being serious right now? What is this, sixth grade?”
“I’m shy! I need help!” Claire does a whiney stomp with her heeled foot—why she’s wearing heels during the week is beyond me. It’s not as if this is a bar or a restaurant with a dress code.
She’s in my dining room, and it’s not fancy.
“You’re pouting,” I point out, with a summer sausage slice hanging from my mouth. “I’m deducting points for that.”
“Please—Posey said you’re the best wingwoman.”
My roommate said that? “Was she drunk?”
Can any of us recall the last time I spoke to a living, breathing man in a romantic sense and had any success?
I’m the opposite of a wingwoman—I am outspoken, blunt, and least likely to swoon. I do not simper, I am not coy, I can barely flirt my way out of a paper bag.
Claire’s confidence wanes. “No, she wasn’t drunk. All she said was you’re good at everything, including small talk, with men.”
Aw—a compliment! “She must have confused the term wingwoman with cockblocker.”
I’m good at small talk with men for one reason and one reason alone: because I don’t care what they think of me. I keep that information to myself. It would be the perfect argument for Claire to further insist I march over and strike up a conversation on her behalf with—
Suddenly, Claire stands up straighter, tall and poised and beautiful, pushing a long strand of blond hair behind her ear so a large, golden hoop can wink and shine at me.
“Elias Cohen.” She’s practically whispering. “He’s in the kitchen.”
“Huh.” I shrug, biting into a carrot stick. “Never heard of him before you mentioned him. What’s his deal besides being an agent?”
“He’s Jack Jennings's sports agent.”
She fails to impress me as that name also has no meaning for me. “Sorry, I don’t know who that is, either.”
Her mouth drops open. “You don’t know who Jack Jennings is?”
I roll my eyes. Apparently, I’ve committed a grave foul, not knowing who these guys are.
Nonplussed, I shuffle around her to resume loading up my plate.
“No. And I don’t care.”
The goal right now is to fill it with one pass so there’s no need for me to come back. Once I’m locked in my office, I’m locked in my office. It has an en suite bathroom—thank god—which will eliminate a possible run-in with any party guests downstairs.
They mingle around us, the decibel of chatter echoing through the halls of my downtown brownstone loud enough that I may have to wear noise-canceling headphones while I work.
“Just come with me.” Claire gives my arm a tug. “No one else will help, and I’m too chicken.”
I bite into a piece of summer sausage. “Obviously.”
“Obviously, you’ll go with me?”
“No. Obviously, you’re a chicken.”
She scowls. “You’re being mean.”
I chew the sausage thoughtfully. “I’m not being mean. I’m being honest.” Sorry, I’m not willing to automatically follow you into the next room and embarrass myself by introducing you to some man even I have never met.